


Dogs in the Trenches

by Manic_Pixie_Dream_Goblin



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 11:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13880010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manic_Pixie_Dream_Goblin/pseuds/Manic_Pixie_Dream_Goblin
Summary: War is a little easier fought when you have monsters to do the dirty work.





	Dogs in the Trenches

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing around in a fantasy setting inspired by the 1930s/1940s. This is a little drabble for it.

The whistle pierced through the pounding artillery and sharp staccato of automatic gunfire. Sharp, high, insistent. Reflexively, and as one, the pack clambered over the wooden slats of the trench and over the rim. Hell awaited them on the other side. Craters, shattered trees, and mangled corpses spread out across a field of grey and brown. Smoke filled the air like a dense fog, tracers zipping through it and serving as a sign of which direction was forward.

Marcelo’s legs pumped as fast as they could, kicking up dirt as his heart pounded and he wheezed through his muzzle. He kept his eyes ahead, mindful of his packmates in his peripheral. Their navy uniforms helped him keep track without looking at them directly. Part of his mind screamed at him to turn and dive back into the safety of the trench, but even if his pride let him, Major Clancy would have a bullet waiting for him. Thankfully, his body moved on its own. Instincts driving him forward, right foot, left foot. Over and over. 

Somewhere to his left, a shell landed and reduced the ground to nothing. The shockwave knocked him off balance, made him stumble and struggle to keep moving. Against his better judgement, he looked up to see if anyone had been caught in the blast, but all that remained was a single arm. Blue sleeve splattered red. No telling who it was, and he didn’t want to think about it now. Head forward again, right foot, left foot. Bullets filling every centimeter of air that he wasn’t occupying. Sharp snaps and whizzes as they missed him by a hair’s width. His heart felt like it might give out at any moment but he couldn’t stop. 

A burst of machinegun fire cut Keates down. Tore her to shreds in an instant. She hit the ground like a ragdoll. Just crumpled like there had never been any life in her in the first place. Marcelo grit his teeth, ran faster. Felt something hot boiling up inside of him and did his best not to let it out. Not too much, anyway. Major Clancy would kill him for that, too. 

Finally, he broke through the smoke enough to see the goal straight ahead. A dip in the land where the Jorgans’ own trench wound through the ground like veins. His eyes widened, his heart pounded, he gripped his trenchgun tighter and willed himself to move faster. In the corner of his vision, he saw one of the machinegun nests lighting up. If they saw him, they could catch him just like Keates. He needed to get over the rim, to safety. Well, relative safety. 

Only a yard or so away, one of the soldiers in the nest spotted him. Marcelo watched, and time slowed as the gun began turning in his direction. At the last possible second, he dove towards the trench, and his inertia carried him forward just as gunfire tore through the spot he had just been occupying. The world blurred, but only for a second before he felt himself begin to fall and smash into hard, compact dirt. He rolled, hit the ground, and scrambled to his feet in the middle of the trench. Someone shouted, and he turned just in time to see a woman in a grey uniform charging, bayonet poised to gut him. 

Marcelo ducked out of the way of the blade, but the soldier’s charge carried her body into him. They both tumbled, but he recovered faster. Yanking her own sidearm from its holster and jamming it against her chest. He pulled the trigger as many times as he could, and by the time the gun clicked empty, she had wheezed her final breath. Teeth grit, he pushed her off him and scooped his trenchgun up. Movement caught his attention, and he turned to see two more grey uniforms come wheeling around the corner. They saw him a second too late, skidding to a stop just as he raised his shotgun and fired. 

The first man was caught dead-center and knocked back with his chest a bloody crater. His friend had just enough time to lift his rifle as Marcelo pumped the shotgun. They fired at the same time, the Jorgan missing and having half his head blown apart in the same instance. Panting, Marcelo pumped his trenchgun again and pushed himself to his feet. He took half a second to look around him, seeing none of his other packmates. 

More machinegun fire snapped him out of it. That nest needed to be taken care of. Marcelo pulled a couple of shells from his bandolier and loaded them into the tube as he marched forward. He followed the winding path of the trench, and barely ten steps forward, another Jorgan came around the corner. Their eyes met right before Marcelo buried his bayonet in his gut, and he watched terror and agony twist at the young man’s features before jerking the barrel of his gun down. A short yelp was all the soldier got out as he was shoved to the ground, his belly opened. Marcelo stepped over him without hesitation and carried forward. 

He came to the entrance of the nest seconds later, where he took a moment to catch his breath before whirling around the corner. One of the Jorgans happened to be ducking from the rim of the trench at that exact moment, and they saw each other at the same time. She called out, but only half a syllable before Marcelo blew her away. The four others turned at the same time. Before any could react, he put the gunner down, pumped his gun, and turned on the spotter. Marcelo fired just as another one of the soldiers opened up with their submachinegun. Most of the rounds went wild, but he felt a few of them catch his gut. He lurched backward as the spotter hit the dirt. 

Fighting through the red-hot blossom of pain, Marcelo pumped his trenchgun and turned it on the man who shot him. He fired again, hitting his target’s knee and making him wail as he collapsed. The last of them charged with her bayonet, and this time Marcelo couldn’t get out of the way. Instead, he tried to brace himself just before the blade sank beneath his ribs. For a moment, the world went white, and he thought he might pass out – or worse, give into the boiling heat filling him up. Somehow, he held on, using his off-hand to grab the barrel of the Jorgan’s rifle to hold it in place. She tried to pull back, but he managed to position the barrel of his shotgun down and pull the trigger. As the lower half of her leg was blown apart, she screamed and fell back, hands releasing their hold on the rifle. 

Marcelo’s whole right arm stung from firing one-handed, and he thought his wrist might be broken. He couldn’t pump it right now, so he dropped it on the ground and pulled the rifle free from his gut. It hurt worse coming out, and he nearly fell to his knee, but there were still two live enemies to deal with. Shaking, he turned the rifle on its owner. She put her hand up, getting half a word out before he put a bullet between her eyes. The shock of the recoil shot a wave of pain up his arm, but he grit through it. 

Across the nest, the only survivor was whimpering and holding onto the mess that used to be his knee. Marcelo stumbled over to him and drove the bayonet through his chest. He wheezed, eyes looking up as if he couldn’t believe he was dying. Battle continued raging around them. Gunfire, explosions, screams and shouts. 

Boots. Thundering closer and closer. Marcelo turned, ears straining to pick the noise out among the rest of the cacophony. More soldiers coming, to take the nest back. He dropped the rifle and scrambled towards the machinegun, yanking out the pin keeping it on its tripod. Left hand beneath the barrel and right on the grip, he hauled the heavy weapon up and spun it around. Not even a second later, a trio of grey uniforms came around the corner. They didn’t even get a chance to raise their weapons before he squeezed the trigger, spraying bullets through the mouth of the nest. A short burst put them all down, and Marcelo heard startled voices shouting from around the corner. Somebody would get smart and just toss a grenade if he waited too long, so he marched down to deal with them quickly. 

Sure enough, a small group of Jorgans was huddled together in the trench. One of them had his hand on a grenade. Marcelo cut them all down, wincing through the agony of his wounds. When they were all in pieces on the ground, he continued back down the way he came. Another pair of soldiers came around the next corner, and he killed them just as quickly. By then, the barrel of the machinegun was practically smoking, and he could feel the heat through his glove, but he ignored it. Until the belt ran dry, he would hold onto it.

On his way through the trench, Marcelo killed six more Jorgans in total, before finally coming across something that made him stop. In a small, makeshift storeroom with a tarp serving as a roof, five corpses surrounded a familiar figure slumped against the wall. Sergeant Fairman looked worse than Marcelo felt. His uniform stained dark, hand gripping his side. Muzzle lying discarded on the ground. Blood seeped from parted lips, and his eyes were squeezed shut, but he was still wheezing. And tensing. Writhing and shaking like he was struggling to hold on, too. 

Marcelo dropped the machinegun – it was almost empty by then anyway – and hurried to Fairman’s side. 

“Sarge, you still here?” he asked, squeezing Fairman’s shoulder. 

He jolted, and his eyes fluttered open. Bright yellow, practically glowing. Pupils blown. On the verge of turning. 

“Luna,” he shuddered, “You’re alive. Hoped all that racket might be you.” 

The sergeant chuckled, wheezed, and tensed again. 

“Yeah, it was me,” Marcelo said, digging around his jacket. He pulled out a dose of serum, and Fairman eyed it warily. They looked at each other for a long moment. 

“I can… Still fight,” Fairman said, though he didn’t sound convinced of it himself. 

“Sure, and when the Major comes marching over the edge after we’ve cleared the place, they’ll put you down like a dog,” Marcelo said. 

Sergeant Fairman closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded. 

“Don’t think anyone else made it,” he said, “So you better.” 

Marcelo scoffed behind his muzzle, grabbed his chin, and turned his face away. 

“Ain’t planning on dying just yet,” he said, and stuck the needle in Fairman’s neck. “Rest, Sarge. I can handle the rest of this.” 

“Yeah,” Fairman said, voice already slurred. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a shuddering exhale before he slumped against the wall. For a moment, Marcelo watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, just to make sure he was okay. His body would heal itself quickly, but it was better safe than sorry. 

Satisfied, Marcelo stood and glanced around for another weapon. One of the Jorgans had a submachine gun strapped around her neck, so he pulled that free and took every magazine she had on her. His body hurt, and he was bleeding like a gut pig, but there was still work to do. 

Marcelo took one last look at the sergeant and continued on.


End file.
